


Turning Tables

by cyranothe2nd



Category: Batman (Movies - Nolan)
Genre: Drugged Sex, Dubious Consent, M/M, Porn With Plot, Sexual Content, Violence
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-05-20
Updated: 2012-05-20
Packaged: 2017-11-05 17:25:58
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,967
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/409068
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/cyranothe2nd/pseuds/cyranothe2nd
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Joker knows better than to believe the words that come out of his darling’s mouth. He trusts in other signals: the rushing of his blood, the heat of his skin, the look in his eyes. Batsy doesn’t though. He won’t hear them, won’t acknowledge what his body wants. Joker has to make him acknowledge it.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Turning Tables

**Author's Note:**

> This story stands on it's own, but I've posted a small, post-story vignette called 'Never Be Brought Down.'

      Joker doesn’t believe in luck. It’s a sucker’s game. He’s never been any good at waiting for opportunity to just show up. No, Joker believes in making his own luck, in _heh_ having an ace up his sleeve. Not the stupid fishies—no no no! They’re just…ah, collateral damage, so to speak. No. The power player has always been Gotham’s hero. The Dark Knight. The Bat Man. When he shows up, things are gonna get in _terest_ ing.

      See, Joker did more than just moulder away during his last stay at good ol’ Arkham Asylum. Hahaha. He made _friends._ Yeah; hard to believe, with the appalling company to be had. Buuuut, there are some…ah, intriguing people in the looney bin. Some really appealing people with absolutely _fassss_ cinating stories to tell. Why, he met this one guy who swore that Batsy is just as crazy as all of the patients in the looney bin. Joker had had to rough him up a bit for that because HIS IS NOT CRAZY, he sees things just fine thank you very much. But before Joker kicked his _teeth_ in, he managed to…ah, liberate a little something from his personal supply.

      See, Joker knows that Batsy doesn’t want to admit something to himself. He’s lying to himself…delusional, ya might say. Can’t deal with the truth. He’s shoved himself into a neat little box and he thinks that will protect him, when really he’s just a second away from snapping. Bats needs to be restrained before he becomes a _danger_ to himself and others.

      He would deny it, of course. But Joker knows better than to believe the words that come out of his darling’s mouth. He trusts in other signals: the rushing of his blood, the heat of his skin, the look in his eyes. Batsy doesn’t though. He won’t hear them, won’t acknowledge what his body wants.

      Joker has to _make_ him acknowledge it.

      It’s time for Batsy to take his medicine.

*****

      _This is the place, _Batman thinks, perched on the edge of the warehouse that the hostages are being held in. Through the skylight he can see four guys in clown masks training guns at a dozen people, kidnapped from a public city bus. No sign of Joker, though.__

      _What are you planning?_ Batman thinks. It is too much to hope that this is the extent of Joker’s game. It is too simple, too easy and far too painless. No, there is definitely another motive at work here but Bruce can not anticipate it. But he knows he doesn’t have to. Joker will reveal it soon enough, likely with a lot of bragging and claims about how alike he and Joker are.

      It drives Batman crazy when Joker says things like that and he suspects the clown knows it, which is probably why he keeps on doing it. Truth be told, sometimes Batman fears that it is truer than either of them wants to admit. It cuts both ways; if Joker is what Bruce would be if he gave into the darkness, then maybe Batman is what Joker could have been if he hadn’t become chaos incarnate.

      Sometimes Batman wonders about Joker—who he was before he came to Gotham and what happened to him, to make him the way he is. Mostly, Batman wonders how to stop someone who doesn’t seem to want anything except to destroy. Batman can well understand corruption, venality, revenge--these are understandable motives. He knows these things, can feel the sharp edges of them inside himself, cutting against the rage that drives him. It would be so easy to give in to them, to become the cleansing fire that burnt away all the filth in Gotham.

      But fire destroys everything in its path—the guilty and innocent alike are engulfed in the blaze. If Batman ever gave in, he knows he would burn the city to the ground.

      Joker doesn’t seem to care about any of that. To him, fire is an interesting way to pass the time. He doesn’t care about the people who get burned; if there was nothing else to burn, he would set himself on fire. The senselessness of it is what sickens him, the profligate nature of a man at once so brilliant and so depraved.

      It is such a waste.

      There is a flurry of movement below. One of the hostages has broken free and is running for the door. A clown-masked goon lifts his gun and Batman crashes through the skylight, knocking the man over and kicking the gun from his hand.

      “Go!” he calls to the hostages as he ducks a second goon’s haymaker. He cold-cocks him and he goes down like a ton of bricks. He can see the hostages scrambling for the exit as he advances on the third and fourth. These ones aren’t as dumb as the other two; they realize they have guns. They both open fire at the same time, and Batman flings himself down. He isn’t fast enough. He can feel the impact of bullets on his chestplate before his thrown batarang clocks one of the men in the face. He goes down as Batman pulls another batarang from his belt. He’s drawing his arm back to throw it when the final goon sags, gunfire abruptly silenced as the pistols falls from his slack grip. Blood fountains around the knife lodged in his trachea.

      “I said _alive_ ,” a grating nasal voice says from behind him.

      Batman springs to his feet attempts to whirl, too late. He feels hands grab him from behind and the sting of a dark bite the underside of his jawline.

      The Joker’s high-pitched laughter accompanies a sudden wave of dizziness.

      “Gotcha,” he says as Batman sinks to his knees.

*****

      Batsy’s strong, Joker’ll give him that. He knows from experience that Crane’s little concoction has a kick like a motherfucker but Batsy refuses to pass out. Instead he glares daggers at Joker. His mouth flaps open and closed a few times but no sound comes out. It’s o _kay._ Joker know what he wants.

      “Shhh, shhh. Don’t worry your pretty lil head.” Joker croons, bending to cradle Batman’s face in his hands. Quite a handsome mug Batsy has. Well, what he can see of it, anyway. He _could_ probably pull his little bat-mask off while he’s woozy but that would be cheating.

      “It’s not lethal.”

      Batman pulls his face away from Joker’s hands with a sneer.

      “Hey, where’s the _trust_ , huh?”

      Batsy lunges from his knees and punches Joker in the gut, angling up to hit his liver. Joker slides to the floor, huffing is silent laugher as Batman gains his feet. He retreats, eying his opponent warily.

      “What did you give me?” he demands.

      Joker is still gasping in breath, wheezing out giggles.

      “What did you give me?!” Batman demands again, rage swelling around his words, chasing back the dizzying weakness brought on by whatever drug Joker’s injected into his system.

      Joker rolls to his feet and smiles with unrestrained glee. “Just a little something to warm you up,” he says and darts forward, kneeing Batman in the groin. The armor absorbs the impact for the most part, at least enough to keep Batman from being debilitated, but it still hurts like hell.

      Batman shoves Joker away.

      “What the hell is that supposed to mean?” he grinds out.

      Joker begins to circle him slowly. Batman drops into a fighting stance as Joker absently pulls out a knife, rubbing the flat side against his rough cheek as he stalks. Batman follows with his eyes, back against the wall so Joker cannot come from behind. His body is fluid in its stillness. He is a tense celebration of menace; Joker cannot help but respond.

      He pounces forward, knife out, but Batman grabs his wrist and twists viciously. He feels the bones of his wrist rub together and he moans in delight, dropping the knife. He tries to wriggle away but Batman is stronger by far, especially now that he’s…unleashed. Batman twists his arm and Joker goes to the ground. Batman follows, planting his knee into Joker’s back and slamming Joker’s face into the concrete. Joker feels the skin of his cheek open, hot blood pouring down his face and he cackles with glee. He goes completely pliant, waiting to see what Batsy will do with his victory.

      Batsy does not disappoint. He pushes Joker roughly over onto his back and straddles him, pinning his hands above his head with one hand. He draws the other back and punches Joker in the face. He doesn’t have a lot of leverage in this position but it still sends pain blossoming from his split cheek. Joker can feel Batsy’s knuckles grinding into his cheekbone and he turns his head towards it.

      “Is this what you want?” Batsy asks. He wraps a hand around Joker’s throat and shakes him. Joker’s head flops like a ragdoll and he makes a gurgling noise.

      _Fuck yessssss,_ Joker thinks.

      He arches up, and Batman can feel the clown’s hard cock rub against the back of his thigh. His mind fills with white noise. His veins feel like they’ve been injected with venom. For a sick moment, Batman can feel his body respond. He does not move, does not give any indication of anything but disgust but Joker’s mouth curls knowingly. _Damn._

      Joker moves against him again, this time more deliberately. It’s not lascivious, not exactly. More curious. His eyes are assessing and he makes a low, helpless sound and his hard flesh presses against Batman. Batman does not move but his eyes go positively feral.

      The moment stretches.

      Bruce stares down at Joker. His head is swimming and his nerves are on fire. He can feel whatever Joker gave him burning in his veins, eroding his control. This cannot happen. Batman is supposed to be sexless--a symbol, a paragon. Batman does not fuck clowns in body-strewn warehouses. Batman does not get off on violence.

      It takes only a few seconds for these thoughts to go through Bruce’s head, and then he hears Joker’s gurgling abruptly cut off and feels his body go slack. It takes him a few seconds more to realize that his fingers are clenched tightly around the clown’s neck. He releases him abruptly, looking down into his motionless, blood-streaked face.

      His own blood is pounding in his temples. His skin feels too tight. He is half-afraid that he’s killed Joker but the slight rise and fall of the clown’s chest reassures him. He wants to put his hands on the Joker, but he is unsure whether it’s to kill him or something else. The desire rises up, foreign and unbidden and Batman fights it, hard. He is not going to break his One Rule. He will not give Joker the satisfaction.

      Sure of that much at least, he shifts his weight off Joker’s chest and stands. He spares a moment to cuff the still-unconscious kidnappers together, but he cannot bear to touch Joker—not now. He settles for watching from an adjacent rooftop as the GCPD bear his senseless form away.

*****

      Joker wakes in the back of an armored police van on the way to the new GCPD headquarters. It takes Joker 30 seconds to pick the lock of the cuffs and bash in the face of the nearest member of the SWAT unit. It takes even less time to dispatch the rest of the team with his newly-purloined gun. Then he simply swings the rear door open and pitches himself from the moving vehicle. He tucks and rolls for a ways, then picks himself up, dusts himself off and carjacks the first car he sees. He trades cars three times before he reaches the Narrows. The sound of sirens still blare in the distance, but the police have lost the trail. Joker giggles to himself as he parks the car in an alley, scraping the right side and upsetting a trash can before he kills the engine.

      He lets himself into his hidey hole and goes straight to the bathroom, pulling antibiotic cream, disinfectant and bandages from the medicine cabinet. Many people, Batsy included, think he doesn’t care what shape his body’s in. Not quite true; Joker doesn’t care about _pain_ , sometimes enjoys it (mostly if it’s the Bat giving it to him) but he doesn’t ignore the needs of his body. To do so is to ask for an early grave. Joker is many things but suicidal isn’t one of them. So, he takes stock of his condition.

      The gash on his cheek has stopped bleeding but it pulls and breaks when he moves his mouth experimentally, trickling blood towards the corner of his mouth. The bone feels sound but he will need a few stitches. His throat is tender, and he will have a nice ring of bruises thanks to Batsy’s foray into breathplay. He has various aches due to the tender ministrations of both his Bat and the upstanding members of the Gotham PD. And, his left thumb is still dislocated from his efforts to escape the cuffs. He pops it back into place absently, kicking off his shoes and then discarding the rest of his clothes. He showers and then stitches up his cheek before padding upstairs naked.

      Joker swings the door open and knows instantly that Batman is there. In fact, the awareness that he has been following Joker since the police van nudges into his consciousness. _Hmmmm._

      Joker enters the room and shuts the door behind him. He reaches for the light switch but a bare hand wraps around his wrist and stops him. He hears a tinkling of glass near the ceiling and realizes that Batsy has thrown something and broken the light bulb. He opens his mouth to compliment Batsy’s aim when he is pushed against the door, the weight of Batman’s body against his stealing his breath.

      He leans close, his lips brushing Joker’s neck as he murmurs, “What have you done to me?”

      Joker shivers. “The drug _re_ laxes inhibitions,” he says hoarsely. Batman’s lips ghost against the bruises on his throat. “It doesn’t create what isn’t there.”

      There really isn’t anything to say to that. Batman ducks his head and sucks at the skin under Joker’s jaw. Joker lets out a breathy moan. His arms snake around Batman, one hand going to the back of his head. Joker hand fists in hair and the realization that the cowl is off sends him to a different place. Because Batman _wants_ this. Wants it enough that’s he’s followed Joker here and stripped off his gloves and his mask. Which means he thought about it, planned it.

      “Bruce, _god_ ,” Joker’s voice is a mess, rough and desperate, a bit of Batman’s gravel lacing through it.

      Bruce pulls back. “How do you know that name?” he demands. Joker shivers. He can feel that deep, cruel voice reverberating through his bones.

      “You want to talk about that _now_?”

      Bruce’s hand tightens around his wrist. He sighs and relents, tilting his head and brushing his lips gently across Joker’s. Joker’s fingers crush in Bruce’s hair, tugging him in and kissing him hard. Bruce nips at his lower lip, eliciting another shiver from Joker. His hand finally releases Joker’s wrist and wraps around him, fingertips scratching the small of his back. It is unexpectedly electric and Joker arches against him, feels the soft leather and hard armor of the Batsuit against his bare skin and he wants more.

      He breaks from the kiss and sinks his teeth into Bruce’s neck, trailing his tongue over the mark he makes. The sound Bruce makes is absolutely _wrecked_. Joker wants to mark him everywhere, wants to strip off his armor and find all the hidden places that make him shiver and moan. He wants to kiss every inch of Bruce’s skin and hear his name in Bruce’s mouth.

      At least he _thinks_ he wants that until Bruce kisses him again and then pivots, reversing their positions. He guides Joker backward towards the bed without breaking the kiss. Joker’s clever fingers find hidden buckles and fastenings, leaving a trail of armor in their wake. Eventually, he feels the edge of the bed at the back of his knees and Bruce pushes him down onto the mattress. He wriggles fully onto it and Bruce strips off the remains of his suit before he climbs over him and laces his fingers through Joker’s, pressing his weight down until they are touching _everywhere_.

      “Joker, _fuck_ ,” he gasps. His hands release Joker’s and trail down his sides and under his hips to clutch his ass. His tongue teases the stitches on Joker’s cheek and the pleasure/pain makes Joker’s head swim.

      Bruce’s lips on his are uncompromising. Comprehensive. Determined. It is terrifying how much he wants this, how he doesn’t think he can live without it after this. He makes a choked noise and wraps his arms around Bruce, pulling him close.

      It is the humanity in the gesture that undoes Bruce—a man seeking reassurance. He nuzzles Joker’s ear.

      Joker runs ragged fingernails down Bruce’s back, leaving trails of fire in his wake. Bruce responds by sucking one of Joker’s rosy nipples into his mouth. Joker is all hot, slick skin and he moans out Bruce’s name, voice slow and fucked out already. Bruce can’t stop touching and tasting, trailing down Joker’s chest and his belly, ignoring the writhing of the man beneath him, taking the time to savor everything.

      He is beyond caring about the morality of this. He only knows that he wants this, has wanted it for a very long time. He will punish himself for it later, of that he is certain. But right now, he is determined to enjoy it.

      He presses a chaste kiss to Joker’s soft belly and Joker huffs out a laugh, his hard cock bouncing against Bruce’s shoulder. Bruce wishes that he hadn’t broken the light bulb, wishes that he could see more than the silvered outline of Joker in the moonlight. Joker’s body is slim and pale in the darkness; the riotous tumble of his hair looks black. Bruce looks up into his shadowed face and realizes that Joker’s face is bare. He’d been so desperate for him that he’d missed the absence of his usual war paint. The realization pierces Bruce’s heart, tenderness winding through the lust. He runs a soothing hand across Joker’s chest and sucks the head of Joker’s cock into his mouth.

      He swirls his tongue around the head and releases, swiping a stripe up the underside. He hasn’t done this since college but, if the noises Joker is making are anything to go by, he isn’t doing that bad. He takes Joker into his mouth again and starts moving in earnest. Joker’s cock isn’t huge—just a little bigger than average—but it’s thicker than his own and he tastes fucking amazing. His hands tighten on Joker’s hips, pressing him down. Bruce’s eyes slide closed and he gets lost in the taste and smell and feel of Joker.

      Joker’s ears are ringing and he can think of nothing but the hot wet press of Bruce’s mouth on him. He comes embarrassingly quickly, shuddering and jerking and Bruce’s hands hold him down and Bruce swallows him down, tongue lapping up every last drop. It is only when Joker is keening from the sensation against his oversensitive prick that Bruce lets up, sliding up his body.

      Bruce kisses him sweetly, and Joker can taste himself on Bruce’s tongue. Bruce’s cock is digging into the soft skin of his groin and Joker arches up, even though his softened cock is still painfully sensitive. It’s worth it for the sound that Bruce makes: a strangled groan that slides right through him. Joker delivers a sloppy kiss to Bruce’s neck, right above the bite mark he left earlier, and pushes Bruce off him.

      There is an awkward shuffle as they rearrange themselves on the bed; Joker is still shaky from coming but he eventually settles on Bruce’s lap. He shifts until Bruce’s prick nudges against his ass. Bruce sucks in a breath. _Oh._

      Joker huffs out a laugh. “Don’t go all blushing and virginal on me now,” he says. His voice is slow and lazy, fucked-out. He leans across the bed to the nightstand and fumbles in the drawer for a bit before straightening up and pressing a bottle into Bruce’s hand. Bruce slicks up his fingers and slides one down Joker’s cleft. Joker is relaxed from coming once already and Bruce’s finger slips easily inside him. He adds another and begins to slide slowly in and out. Joker groans and grinds back, fucking himself on Bruce’s fingers. Bruce breaks the rhythm, slips out and comes back with three fingers. Joker holds his breath through the slow stretch and burn of it, letting out a shuddery exhale as Bruce resumes his rhythm. He moans against Bruce’s collarbone when Bruce’s fingers brush his prostate.

      “Now,” he whines shamelessly. “Do it _now_.”

      Bruce sucks in a breath and removes his fingers. Then his cock is pressing in, hot and hard and impossibly good. Joker feels the puffs of breath against his ear as Bruce gasps out profanities and endearments but he is too far gone in the slide of Bruce’s cock to make out individual words. He levers himself up onto his arms and feels the drag of Bruce’s cock against his prostate.

      “Bruce. Jesus, _fuck_ ,” he moans. He rolls his hips and watches Bruce come undone beneath him, shivering like he’s shaking apart.

      Joker takes his dick in his hand and strokes in time to his movements. The sight of him touching himself, back arched as he rides Bruce’s cock, is just too much.

      “So fucking gorgeous,” Bruce pants. He wraps his hands around Joker’s hips and meets him on the downstroke. The change of angle leaves them both breathless. Bruce feels like he will die if he doesn’t come soon, but he wants Joker to come first. He grits his teeth and drives into the body above him as Joker’s hand blurs on his cock.

      Bruce fucks him with abandon, Joker meeting his frantic pace. The sounds coming out of Joker’s gaping mouth are obscene. His hair is a wild tangle and Bruce reaches up, grabs a damp fistful and yanks hard. The pain sends Joker over the edge and the feel of him contracting around his cock finishes Bruce. He comes so hard he sees stars.

*****

      Bruce has no idea how long he lays there in a daze. Long enough for Joker to go downstairs and come back with a damp towel. He cleans them both off and then lays next to Bruce, close but not touching. He is mercifully silent. Bruce’s head begins to clear but he feels curiously empty. He knows he should be angry, should probably beat the clown to a pulp for drugging him like that but—

      “I didn’t do anything you didn’t _want_ ,” Joker says softly. His voice sounds sleepy and sated. There is something incredibly privileged in hearing him sound like that. It is intimate and raw and it completely disarms Bruce.

      He can feel the moment this ends marching inexorably closer. It doesn’t matter that he wants it, wants Joker in his bed, will crave him from now on like a drug. He can ignore what he wants because of _who he is_. He will gather the strength and climb out of this bed and, when next they meet, they will be enemies again.

      But not yet.

      Bruce sighs, reaches down to the bottom of the bed and brings the coverlet over them both. Tomorrow is soon enough, he decides.


End file.
